


The Recipe for Impulsive Confessions

by Bitenomnom



Series: For the Following [Length of Time] [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Comfort, Friendship, Gen, Love, M/M, Mycroft may or may not be stealing a few of Sherlock's seduction secrets, Mycroft's Meddling, Pining, Sherlock mad lib, bad romance novels, first (and only) kiss
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-30
Updated: 2013-01-30
Packaged: 2017-11-27 12:50:03
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,324
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/662188
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bitenomnom/pseuds/Bitenomnom
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Lestrade went to the book store, he wasn’t expecting to find Sherlock. He was expecting even less for the following six minutes to be so blue.  If only Sherlock hadn’t sneezed so deliciously—but he did. <i>Rats.<i></i></i></p><p>Written for Sammei based on her (above) fill of a mad lib I wrote.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Recipe for Impulsive Confessions

**Author's Note:**

> This was written based on the summary generated by [Sammei](http://sammei.tumblr.com) by filling in a mad lib I wrote as a part of a fun thing I did on Tumblr. I tried my best to cover everything in the summary while still making it a coherent and not-crazily-long story, and I hope you like it! 
> 
> The rest of these will follow in this series, which I've titled "For the Following [Length of Time]." There will be 14 in total, 15 if I write one for my own "test" fill (I used a random word generator and it turned out interestingly).
> 
> By the way, I'm really sorry, but I didn't actually proofread it -- I promised myself I'd finish and post it before going to bed and I reeeeally need to do that now.

            Greg was one hundred percent certain that he hadn’t let Sherlock in on this case. He was sure of this primarily because he, one, had never texted or called Sherlock about it, and, two, it only became a case about three hours ago and it hadn’t been aired or printed or, to Greg’s knowledge, otherwise spoken-of since.

            But here Sherlock was, crouched over the entirety of Waterstones’ selection of bad detective-themed romance novels, strewn all over the floor in front of him, like he would over an especially intriguing corpse.

            “Oy,” said Greg, “what’re you doing here?”

            “Needed some quiet,” Sherlock mumbled to himself, not looking up. He followed it with, “I see you’ve got a new case on.”

            “All right, you can’t know that.”

            “You’re at a book store you never visit, specifically looking for this topic,” Sherlock began, and when Greg opened his mouth, he continued, “ _obvious_ , by the way you were walking. I could similarly ask,” and Sherlock finally did look up, this time, and it struck Greg that something was—off, Sherlock’s eyes squinting slightly or glazed-over or both, “why you yourself came here for this errand, rather than sending someone, or even calling the store. You’re just looking at their selection, aren’t you? I’d bet the victim had a recently purchased novel in his house.”

            “Hers,” Greg corrected, and added, “Needed some quiet.” One corner of his mouth quirked up in a half smile, and he raised his eyebrows to convey his understanding to Sherlock.

            “Anderson?” Sherlock asked.

            “Actually, yeah.”

            “His wife found out. He’ll have been particularly rude all day, I’m sure.”

            Greg couldn’t hold back a snickering snort at this. “Yeah, I s’pose you’re the expert on rude, aren’t you?”

            Rather than snap back about the unimportance of such dull practices as politeness, Sherlock simply gazed back down at the novels cluttered around his feet. Greg crouched beside him. “But there’s no way you actually knew about the case and the contents of the victim’s bookshelves before me and beat me here,” he continued. “So what are you doing looking at, er,” he picked up one of the novels, “ _The Mystery of the Prussian Poledancer_?”

            “Research,” said Sherlock.

            “Oh, right.” Lestrade set it back down and glanced through a few of the other titles, all equally ridiculous. He peered around Sherlock’s arm to look at the spine of one that Sherlock was holding close to his chest. “ _A Scandal in Afghanistan_?” He couldn’t suppress a grin. “All right, now don’t try to convince me that that one’s about political intrigue.”

            “It _is_ ,” Sherlock said, and then added more quietly, “a bit.”

            “What exactly are you researching?” Greg tried to arrange the novels into some semblance of their original state as he sifted through them for the one he’d seen in the victim’s home. “I’m sure blowing up eyeballs in the microwave can’t have gotten so boring that you’ve moved on to tawdry detective-romance novels for entertainment.”

            “Maybe I’m going to systematically destroy them to make the world a better place.”

            “You seem like the sort of bloke who’d start that project in the self-help section.”

            Sherlock finally cracked a smirk. “I suppose you’re correct.”

            “So what’s with this?” he nodded at the piles of novels. He had a theory, but it would be so much better to hear Sherlock himself say it.

            “Perhaps I’m not known for such following such idiotic conventions as _manners_ ,” Sherlock began, turning the book over in his hand, “but that’s never really bothered John. Has it? He gets frustrated, but he doesn’t make a fuss over it.”

            “Yeah,” said Greg. “I’m not sure if I should be more in awe of him for his patience, or more afraid of what’ll happen when he finally snaps.”

             “He did.”

            _Oh_.

            Greg watched Sherlock’s lips twist into each other, and then wobble back out. He tucked them back in and gripped them with his teeth for a moment, as if sealing in some words or sounds. Greg felt his heart sink.

            “What happened?”

            “Unimportant,” Sherlock said. “What matters is that he’s angry with me and won’t listen to anything I say to try to fix it.”

            “Christ, you two are like a married couple.” Greg sighed. “Well, based on my experience anyway, for what that’s worth.”

            “Not much,” said Sherlock.

            “Look, mate.” Greg laid a hand on Sherlock’s shoulder, and Sherlock, for once, did not shrug it off. He was almost surprised to feel warmth emanating from it. Sherlock made an odd noise that Greg counted as a very valiant attempt not to sniffle. “It’ll blow over, all right? It always does.”

            Sherlock remained silent for what must have been minutes, and Greg kept his hand at Sherlock’s back. Sherlock was in such a better place now, compared to where he’d been when Greg found him, that Greg had all but forgotten those days when Sherlock had such marked lows. These days, he thought, Sherlock probably kept those moods at home, with John, who had never failed to surprise Greg with the extent to which he was able to lift Sherlock up and carry him, and in more ways than just in mood. This, Greg thought, was like eight years ago, when Sherlock had broken into his flat and laid on his sofa, systematically insulting each of Greg’s possessions until Greg brought him out a piece of cake from his own birthday, humored him and insulted Mycroft for a few minutes, and then threatened to call Mycroft over to have the cake if Sherlock wouldn’t eat it.

            Sherlock had crouched over the plate and made his way through the slice while Greg watched to make sure he didn’t do something sneaky like stuff every other bite into the sofa cushions.

            “He cares, you know,” Greg had finally said, clearing his throat. “Your brother.”

            “He cares that I don’t embarrass him,” Sherlock said. “He cares that I don’t send our mother into a fit.” He took another bite, keeping his eyes on the family photos on Greg’s wall rather than looking at the man himself.

            Greg shook his head. “You’re wrong.” He fixed his eyes firmly on Sherlock, in he hopes he’d eventually look up. “For once.”

            “Well he’s about as talented at showing it as I am at…” Sherlock trailed off.

            “…Getting it? Yeah.” Greg stood up from his chair, hovering over Sherlock on the sofa. “Budge up.”

            Sherlock obliged, staring despondently at the remainder of the cake. He took another small bite.

            Greg took a seat beside him. “What’s got you like this?” he asked.

            “Nothing important.”

            “Uh-huh.” He raised his eyebrows, and tentatively laid a hand on Sherlock’s shoulder. “You broke into my bloody flat for no good reason, did you?”

            Sherlock set the cake down. Greg didn’t push it. He squeezed Sherlock’s shoulder. “Well, I’m here, of course.”

            “Obviously.”

            And now here Greg was, at the book store, with the same hand on Sherlock’s same shoulder, waiting, his heart sunk to the same depth of cautious sympathy.

            “Is there anything I can do to help?” he finally asked. “Is there one of these you’re looking for?”

            “No,” Sherlock said, “not one in particular.” He clutched the book he was already holding closer to himself, and as he did so, Greg pulled his hand back.

            “I’m looking for,” he paused, “well, the victim’s, er, recent reading material included _The Sign of Whore_.”

            “Pornography section,” Sherlock said. “Sorry, _erotica_.”

            “It’s a detective novel.”

            “It’s in that section. Obviously more pornography than detecting.”

            “And that one’s not?” he raised an eyebrow at Sherlock’s selection.

            “This one has a _case_ ,” Sherlock defended, frowning.

            “Well, ta,” said Greg. Now he was out of reasons to stick around and try to chat Sherlock out of his mood. “You’re sure there’s nothing I can do to help?”

            Sherlock bit the insides of his lips again. “It’s John,” he finally said. “I’ve upset him. Again.”

            “So you said.” Greg was half tempted to say something like, _Come live with me for a while then, you berk_ , because god knew he needed some company sometimes, with the wife out of the picture and the kids all but, but—Sherlock was probably not that person. Sherlock would try to run experiments in the kitchen and Greg was quite certain that he hadn’t John’s patience for that sort of thing. Still, he thought, it wouldn’t be so bad, if Sherlock still broke in, if Greg felt a little more—necessary. If he still felt half as important to Sherlock as he used to. He flushed a little at the thought. _Whatever that’s supposed to mean._

            Well, he knew bloody well what it was supposed to mean. A man could only come home to find Sherlock Holmes sprawled out on his sofa so many times before he started having _thoughts_. But that wasn’t important, because it definitely hadn’t been what Sherlock needed, and Greg had been a married man and wasn’t about to go that route, whether his wife did or not. (Which she did, he thought, and he would’ve known about it even without Sherlock analyzing every sliver of the evidence as if he were trying to _convince_ Greg to cheat on her.)

            Sherlock made a strange gagging noise in an attempt to cover up another sniffle, but then gave in and sniffed again.

            “Are you…” Greg narrowed his eyes, leaning in. Was Sherlock about to…cry?

            Sherlock waved his hand. “No,” he said, “no, of course not. I,” he sniffed again, “it’s the books, I think I…” he sucked in a triple-sniffle and now Greg could, see, it was that he was going to _snee_ —

            Sherlock gripped Greg’s shoulders to balance himself as he gave in and huffed out a short and abrupt sneeze, something higher-pitched than had any right to come from someone like Sherlock, and when he looked back up, Greg saw that Sherlock’s cheeks were tinted pink. _Ah, dammit_ , was all he had time to think, before he gave in to an impulse of his own. Using the grip of Sherlock’s hands on his shoulders to keep him close, he leaned forward, pressing his lips into Sherlock’s own lips, slightly red from Sherlock’s biting words back.

            “Oh,” Sherlock said, when Greg finally pulled back.

            “Er,” Greg said, and, “yeah. Sorry, I…”

            “No,” Sherlock said, “it’s…well. I…”

            “You probably…”

            “I was going to say,” Sherlock muttered, stuttered, “that I was trying to—well. John was mad and I—I wanted to—I was doing things he deemed ridiculous and irrational but that was because I was trying to show him that I—but apparently _that’s_ how it’s done,” Sherlock said, running a finger along his lip, as if he could swab it and analyze the sample to determine the exact recipe for impulsive confessions.

            Greg had always suspected it, but it was another thing to know, to know straight after kissing Sherlock Holmes. “You want to tell him that you lo…”

            “Obviously.” Sherlock huffed. He looked back at Greg first sharply, but then, as he seemed to process what had just happened, through more bashful eyes. “I…thank you.”

            “You were reading these,” Greg said, looking around at the books, and then nodding at the one Sherlock was holding. “Was it because you were trying to figure out how to tell him, or…was it that you were just to imagine what it would be like to be the detective in the books, getting the g—”

            “Irrelevant,” said Sherlock, quickly shelving _A Scandal in Afghanistan_.

            “I’m glad I could help,” Greg said, and couldn’t help the constriction in his throat as he said it. He wasn’t ready yet to identify whether it was from being touched that he was able to help a friend, or because he knew, for certain this time, that there would be no more coercing Sherlock into eating cake on his sofa, no more break-ins that caused week-long fights with his wife (ex-wife) every time they happened.

            “The victim died of mebendazole poisoning,” said Sherlock, collecting himself.

            “How—”

            Sherlock rolled his eyes. “You’re carrying the case files. I was able to glimpse the top few pages while you turned around to shelve the books I took down.”

            “Sneaky bastard,” Greg said.

            “I need to test how the new data affects the current situation,” Sherlock said, finally standing up. “With John,” he specified.

            “Right,” said Greg, and before he could say anything else, Sherlock had swooped down the aisle and toward the staircase. Greg picked up _A Scandal in Afghanistan_ , running his thumb over the pages as if he could determine the quality of the text by the ruffling sound of the pages through his fingers, like a criminal counting cash. He leaned back against the bookcase.

            Greg wasn’t sure how long he sat there, mulling over his thoughts; minutes, maybe. He felt heavy. He wasn’t in a hurry. Sherlock would show up to the next case light and energized and his own fool self again, with John in tow, laying a hand on his shoulder, making him eat.

            In the end, he sat in one of the bookstore’s chairs and read the first three chapters of _A Scandal in Afghanistan_. It was rubbish, but enjoyable rubbish. The detective in it was far too cautious to be Sherlock; he drew up contracts, he spied and manipulated. But when he met the soldier, he forgot how to lie.

            Greg nearly jumped out of his skin when his mobile beeped. He prayed to a variety of deities that it wasn’t Sherlock with a minute-by-minute update of his progress with John.

            _You have my thanks_ , came a text from a number that Greg didn’t have in his phone.

            He started typing _Can’t imagine w_ when a new text came in.

            _If you’re quite finished with that horrendous novel, meet me at the café one floor up._

            His phone beeped again.

            _If you’re not finished, meet me all the same._

 

**Author's Note:**

> You can find the link to all the mad lib summaries I'll be writing stories for on my Tumblr [here](http://toasterfish.tumblr.com/post/41727213150/the-mini-mad-lib-results).


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